


Hero's Journey

by Goldenrayofsunshine



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Light Angst, Not RPF, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson Tries (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Piglin Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Pre-Canon, Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sad Parental Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson Friendship (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade got his moral compass from a collection of Greek Mythology, Technoblade is Bad at Feelings (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), The Nether (Minecraft), Video Game Mechanics, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), autistic author, that's why he's Like That, the DSMP characters, to lull you into a false sense of security, well pretty much. the events match but the motivations are tweaked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenrayofsunshine/pseuds/Goldenrayofsunshine
Summary: Phil pours water into his instant ramen cup and slides it into the microwave. Two minutes later, he pops the door open with a ding.“The victorious warrior prepares a feast of forty oxen,” comes a small voice from behind him, and Phil jumps out of his skin and splashes boiling water on his hands.“How the fuck did you get into my house?” The little piglin stands in the middle of his kitchen, tracking red dust into the tile.***Twenty-something trying to get his life together and the echolalic hell-piglet that thinks he's the best, greatest, bravest man in the whole world.My twist on "Philza rescues baby Techno from the nether."
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & Phil Watson, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 137
Kudos: 542





	1. Origin Story

This is his first hunt, and the golden sword he wields is as long as his torso. He wears a simple leather tunic: no armor, as he hasn’t earned it yet. He has two fathers and three mothers, each one brawnier than the last. Technoblade is small and slight, but this will be the day he proves himself.

His father, a grizzled boar with a scar carved into his cheek, picks their prey. A hoglin with a waxy black mane that forages for buried mushrooms. The crimson forest buzzes with life and energy, red like blood that will never dry. The mothers wind back their crossbows, and Techno takes up a fighting stance, his weapon ready. Three arrows strike the beast at once, barbed tips embedding shallowly in the tough hide. The piglet leaps forward, snorting out a war cry, and lands a melee blow, his blade twisting up into the hoglin’s soft belly. His pack cheers for him as he dodges the vengeful tusks and rolls to safety. The monster bellows with rage and charges him; he leaps nimbly to one side. The yellowed ivory still catches him in the stomach and he snuffles in pain. He’s earned that wound.

The hoglin stomps its heavy hooves. It slavers pink foam. Now that it’s mortally injured, it will fight twice as fiercely. Technoblade clutches his side with one hand and strikes out with the other. Only then does a second hoglin emerge from behind a ruddy boulder.

Techno slashes at its spine with his sword but the blade is soft and dull and doesn’t break through the leather. Although he despises the moment of weakness, he squeaks out for help. His mothers and fathers stare down at him sadly and turn their backs.

Six piglins cannot fight two hoglins. It is simple fact, and it would mean the end of his whole herd if they were to try. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less when Technoblade realizes his family has abandoned him. The pair of beasts bears down on him, tusks jagged, white eyes gleaming with animalistic fury. He’s been left to die, and he’s afraid. He closes his eyes and clutches his sword in an imitation of dignity.

The blow never comes. The kid isn’t impaled. He hears several pained squeals, and then the desperate scrabble of fleeing hooves on netherrack. Technoblade looks up to see his savior, a winged man in gleaming armor who brandishes a massive sword. He  _ laughs  _ as he pursues the hoglins, bowling them over and slitting their throats. The little piglin watches in awe. He’s never seen anyone like this before. The angel is a hero, and Techno owes him his life.

***

Phil may be a loser, but at least he’s been to Hell. He wanted an adventure, and now he’s just behind on his mortgage payments. At least he knows where to find wheelbarrows full of gold. He chews thoughtfully on his stringy cut of meat. Not as good as overworld pork, but not a bad lunch, either. Tough, sort of gamy, with a controversial aftertaste. But he prefers it to mushroom stew, and killing hogs is exhilarating. He washes down his meal with a draught of fire resistance potion, and realizes that a small piglin has been watching him. “Sorry for stealing all that gold, mate.” His rucksack is heavy, and it clanks when he moves. “Gotta pay the bills somehow, you know?” The child stares at him with wide, adoring eyes. He produces a few pebbles from his pocket and tosses them at Phil’s feet.

Huh. He’s never seen a piglin give away its wares for free before. “Gravel?” He inspects it and sets it down. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t have much use for it right now.”

The piglin steps forward and passes him an ender pearl. Much more valuable. “Wait, are you listening to me?”

The little guy crosses its arms.

“Arrows.” And a small bundle of arrows, both spectral and regular, lands at his feet.  _ Damn.  _ But it still could be a coincidence. “Quartz.” He receives a few jagged white stones. “Hey, neat trick.” This is almost interesting enough to be useful. He digs a golden apple out of his bag and rolls it over as a reward. But his aim is poor, and the apple bounces down into a ravine. The baby piglin runs squealing after it and disappears from sight. “Oh, well, it was funny while it lasted.” He unfurls his wings and begins the journey back to his portal. He likes the nether, but he has to hurry back home before the repo guys take his bedframe again.

***

Curse the apple! A thousand curses upon that magical fruit! He saw the glint, and his instincts overtook him. Like Atalanta losing her first race, he tore from the finish line and pursued the temptress. And when he resurfaces, the hero is gone, barely a feather left behind to commemorate his deeds. Technoblade plucks the feather from the ground and tucks it into his belt. He has met the most powerful man alive, perhaps even a God in disguise, and lost him in the same day, and he cannot accept that.

And with his family gone, what else is he supposed to do?

***

Phil pours water into his instant ramen cup and slides it into the microwave. Two minutes later, he pops the door open with a  _ ding. _

“The victorious warrior prepares a feast of forty oxen,” comes a small voice from behind him, and Phil jumps out of his skin and splashes boiling water on his hands.

“How the fuck did you get into my house?” The little piglin stands in the middle of his kitchen, tracking red dust into the tile.

“Window wasn’t locked.”

“You -- you can’t…” he gestures weakly and sucks a noodle into his mouth. “...you shouldn’t be in the overworld.” He looks at the child’s stout physique and flushed cheeks. “How hasn’t it  _ ruined  _ you?”

“He who has tasted the bitter root of Hermes shall not fall victim to Circe’s foul poison.”

“What?”

The piglin pokes at a shriveled green-and-orange mushroom tied to the outside of Phil’s pack.

“Oh, you mean the warped fungus?” He chuckles. “I just carry that with me for protection. Keeps the hogs away.” He drops a bit of pork jerky into his soup, the hot broth revitalizing the meat. “Shit, kid, you’re bleeding all over my floor.”

The child flinches away from him, pressing both hands to its gut. “I bear my battle wounds with honor and decorum.”

“I don’t care, you’re making a mess.” Phil sets down his dinner to grow cold on the counter. “If you’re going to be here, you have to let me fix you up.”

The piglet trembles, but slowly moves his hands away. His shirt is soaked with blood, and the leather is punctured. Phil lifts up the garment and sees that the injury is far more severe than the kid was letting on. A deep red hole stabbed into his abdomen. “Oh God no. You’re gonna fucking die.”

The piglin squeaks.

“No, sorry -- I, I shouldn’t say that. I’m sure you’re going to be fine, I just don’t exactly know what to do and I’m kind of freaking out right now.”

He points to the poker leaning against Phil’s fireplace.

Cauterization would stop the bleeding, but…  _ Oh, hell, that’s extreme. _ “I’m sorry, I’m not sure if I can…”

“I know you are not a coward.”

His hand shakes as he holds the metal against the coals. The tip of the iron tool glows red-hot, and his resolve falters. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“Should I beg and pray you to stop, you must continue.”

“Okay, okay…” he sways back and forth and takes loud breaths.  _ There’s a reason he became an adventurer instead of a doctor. _ He cringes in empathy as he presses the poker against the gaping cut. The piglin cries out, but he ignores it for as long as he can, stopping only when he catches the disturbingly pleasant scent of fried bacon. “I’m never doing that again. Fuck off. Not worth it. I’ll just let you die next time.

The kid looks up at him with watery eyes. “Thank you, brave bird man.” Then he collapses, and Phil, having no fucking better ideas, carries him upstairs and puts him to bed.

***

Technoblade wakes up someplace soft. A woolly mattress beneath him, and thick flannel sheets protect him from the overworld’s constant chill. In the nether, beds are said to be dangerous. It’s never safe to relax like this.

His tunic has been stolen, and he’s wearing some sort of flimsy invalid’s garment. Strong men wear strong armor. He touches his blistered stomach. He’ll have a scar of his own now, like, like… 

Like no one in particular.

He stands up and brushes red dust off his arms. The overworld has a specific scent, sweet and cloying. He prefers the smoky musk that reminds him of home, something which still clings to his skin. The sky is light, and he’s hungry. He looks for his sword and can’t find it. Time to go exploring. 

He makes his way downstairs to a familiar room. Food is here, he’s pretty sure. But he’s distracted by a silvery basin set into the counter. He doesn’t quite understand it. He turns a knob, and a clear, cold liquid comes rushing out of the faucet and splashes over his arms.  _ Oh!  _ He touches the stream with his tongue and shrieks in delight at the new sensation.

He hears a groan through the wall. “Unnnh, you’re awake.” The angel staggers into the kitchen, scratching at the blond stubble on his chin. “It’s six in the morning, I can’t deal with this shit.”

“At the first sight of rosy-fingered dawn, we embark.”

Phil pinches the bridge of his nose. “Where did you even learn English?”

“The book…” Techno pats at his flank, “...Oh no. It’s lost.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s not my fault you left it behind.”

He sniffs. “I know all the stories by heart anyways.”

“And it shows.” He rolls his eyes. “My name is -- can you say  _ Phil?” _

“Phil,” he echoes reverently, knowing that Gods and heroes go by many aliases.

“How about you? Is there something I can call you?”

“...Technoblade.” Phil snorts. “You think it is funny?”

“No, mate, it’s a fine name. It’s just, well…. it’s a brand of toy sword.”

“My title comes to me by a cardboard relic retrieved from a higher civilization.”

“Sure, just -- one sec.” He retrieves something from a closet. “Look, it lights up when you swing it.”

Techno takes the sword carefully and swishes it about. His form is perfect. “My name is inscribed on the handle!”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you-- You know what, actually? This weapon was forged specifically for you. For years it has lain waiting for the right warrior to happen upon it and take it off the mantel.”

Technoblade sheathes the toy and nods solemnly. “I shall protect you with my life, Phil. You have saved me, and if you allow it, I can return the favor. You are the bravest man I have ever known.”

“It’s made of plastic,” he points out, “You can’t actually fight with it.”

“You are the greatest person alive. A true hero. It distinguishes me to serve you.”

“Are you trying to move in with me or something?” He shakes his head with exhaustion, “Because you do not have permission to do that.”

“I require only the meanest accommodations. Show me to your stable, or to the slaves’ quarters.”

“I don’t have slaves, that’s fucked up. And do I look like the kind of person who can afford even  _ one  _ horse?”

“I do not know. I have never actually seen a horse, just read about them. But they are noble beasts, and someone of your status surely deserves one.”

He glances around his dingy house. “My status?”

“You’re a hero, Phil.”

He frowns. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because you saved my life.” He shifts in his chair, crossing his little legs. “The monsters were bearing down on me, and I was alone. I’ve read about heroes. I knew as soon as I met one.”

He’d just been hunting hogs. He hadn’t even seen the little piglin cowering in the midst of them. And, well, Phil’s barely a functional human being. But it’s nice to be told something different for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Autistic Experience is that I was nonverbal for three years and then I talked like this^. You all have a pass to laugh at me as it is objectively very funny.
> 
> please comments please


	2. Call to Adventure

The piglin doesn’t leave. He stays out of Phil’s way, never stealing food or resources, hunting his own small animals. Sometimes Phil doesn’t see Technoblade for days, and he assumes the little guy has moved on. But like an outdoor cat, his piglin always returns, leaving bloody rabbit corpses on his doorstep. “Please stop doing this.”

Techno bows. “Grant me six fleet hounds and your finest bow, that I may conquer the forest.”

“I’m not going to eat this. I don’t know how long it’s been sitting out.” Techno looks crestfallen. “I’m fine though, you know that, right? I’m not going to starve. I can take care of myself.” More or less. Fast food is fine, and it’s cheap, and it’s made by people who wear rubber gloves. “Look at this.” He fishes his burger out of the foil wrapper. “And it came with a crown.” He unfolds the strip of yellow paper into a circlet and puts it on his head. Technoblade stares up at him greedily, his tail twitching. Phil asks, “do you want it?”

He nods and kneels at Phil’s feet to receive the gift. It perches awkwardly atop the broad pink ears. “I accept my coronation with honor. I shall lead our kingdom to prosperity.”

“I’m glad. Somebody has to do it.”

He stands. “You can count on me, Phil.”

Phil smiles. This is the most reliable squatter he has ever had. “So, are you liking it here in the Overworld?”

Techno shrugs. “It is bitter cold. I crave a Mediterranean climate.”

“Mediterranean?” asks Phil, puzzled, “have you ever even seen an ocean?”

And the piglin shudders, because he knows terrible stories of oceans.

***

This is the body of a God he’s never met, a God all powerful in his domain. This is a graveyard of sailors with necks snapped like the mainmast of a ship in a storm. Boats ram into one another as war weapons. Monsters live in every lee and inlet. The wine-dark sea demands sacrifices.

“You can’t swim, can you?”

“Lend me your Nereid’s scarf. I shall return it to you when I reach the far shore.”

“Uh.” Phil stands in the surf and lets the tide run over his bare ankles. He feels like he’s developing heatstroke. He buckles a yellow lifejacket around Technoblade’s chest. “It’s like armor. For water.”

The lakes of the Nether are hot and viscous. The liquid rock glows molten orange and swirls below the cliffs and bastions, an everpresent threat. All who slip beneath the surface are sucked down and lost forever to a terrible fate, their bodies never recovered. “It won’t hurt me?”

“No. Don’t drink it, though. It’s just water with salt and bubbles in it.”

He licks a little off his paw. “Foul brine.”

“Mm hm.”

He looks at the ocean  _ (lava)  _ and the sky  _ (ceiling) _ and snuffles in his old tongue. Both are the same unfamiliar color that he’s never seen nor read about. Homer had no word for this rich hue and neither did the pigs. He grunts a small question.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Phil seems to understand. “The most beautiful shade of blue.”

Technoblade repeats the word under his breath until he knows it by heart. “blue, blue, blue.” He likes the way it feels, so he keeps going. _“blue, blue, blue, blue, blue.”_

“Come on,” offers Phil, “I can teach you how to swim.”

“No thank you,” says Techno, stepping back onto the dry sand, “I have learned enough for one day.”

***

Phil is confused by the piglin. Technoblade has taken over his house like a vermin, but doesn’t particularly seem to want anything from him. He rarely contributes but never takes. He’s much smaller than any adult piglin Phil has ever seen, but he’s eloquent in the most unsettling way possible. “How  _ old  _ are you?”

He looks at his hands as though counting on his fingers. “Expendable.”

“Huh?” That’s not really an answer.

“Baby,” Techno tries to translate, “Pre-warrior.”

Phil feels very uncomfortable with the picture he’s piecing together. He chuckles nervously, and the piglin seems to curl in on himself, hurt. “Almost made it. Almost adult. Was supposed to be.”

Oh,  _ weird.  _ “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m not always the best at dealing with other people’s feelings. It’s sort of my Achilles Heel.”

Technoblade’s face breaks into the biggest smile. “You know the stories!”

“Well, just a little bit.” Phil has finally gotten through to the kid. He feels accomplished.

“I keep all the tales close to my heart. If you wish it, I can regale you.”

“Sure, yeah. You can do that.” 

***

Techno crouches on the countertop beside him as he washes dishes. The pile has grown to the rim of the sink and is attracting fruit flies.

“This reminds me of the story of the Augean stables,” squeaks the pig. Phil sighs and squirts detergent onto a sponge. “The king left his barn untended for years, until his livestock stood caked in manure.”

“Fuck you.”

“As one of his impossible labors, Hercules was tasked with cleaning the mess in a single afternoon. He shoveled, but it was impossible. So he redirected the river.” Techno presses his hand to the faucet, spreading the spray in all directions.

Phil spits suds from his mouth and yelps. “Okay, fun’s over. I’m kicking you out of my house now.”

“It’s just water, Phil. It can’t hurt you.” In the nether, everything hurts. He knows he’s pushing his luck, but this is the way that piglins play: banter and light wrestling and bluntness and meanness. Still, his heart drops when the angel lifts him by his shoulders and dangles him over the kitchen floor. 

“Back to hell. I’m returning you to whoever’s supposed to be watching you, because it isn’t me.”

Techno thrashes and squeaks. He misses the nether, in a way, but he knows he won’t survive there on his own. It takes a special kind of piglin to get by without a pack, and Technoblade is small and inexperienced. He hasn’t even earned his armor yet. He struggles against Phil’s grip, but instead of dropping him, the man sets him gently on the floor.

“Wait, what  _ did  _ happen to your parents?”

Phil might not know much about piglins, but surely he knows that they live in fiercely loyal packs. Techno can’t admit the truth. What if Phil thinks he’s picked up a defective one? He has a sacred mission to stay by the man’s side, to defend his hero. “They all perished,” he decides at last, “In battle.”

“Aw, mate. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Technoblade squares his shoulders. “I shall be braver than they ever were.”

***

Sometimes Phil travels by night. Sometimes he leaves Technoblade behind at home. When the piglin wakes up to find his friend missing, he’s invariably furious. “You saved me so I save you. If we do not stay close together, I cannot do that. These are the rules.”

“What?” Phil yawns. It’s barely daybreak and he’s already been out for hours. The little piglin accosts him at the threshold. “I don’t have to take you with me everywhere. You need your sleep, and I stay out late.”

“Exactly. It’s most dangerous at night.” Techno lists the many monsters that hide in the shadows, waiting to tear adventurers limb from limb. “You put yourself in mortal peril.”

“I promise I don’t,” Phil laughs, thinking of the way skeleton’s arrows glance easily off his chest plate and shield. “Fine, I’ll prove it to you. Come along with me tomorrow and you’ll see how safe I am, and that you don’t have to worry.”

Technoblade eagerly accepts.

“I need to make you some armor, though. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

He shakes his head, his floppy ears flapping. “No.”

“No?”

“First set of armor is very important to Piglins. Must be taken off my fallen enemies. So no armor. I haven’t earned it yet.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Okay, Techno, please listen to me now. I don’t mean to disrespect your culture, but in case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t the Nether and I’m not a piglin. You are a child and I feel responsible for you. If a zombie bites out your throat and you fucking die, I will be sad.” His tone softens. “You’re brave, okay? You’ve done great things. You held off two hoglins all by yourself, you survived the journey to the Overworld, you saw the ocean. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve some armor.”

Techno’s pale eyes water. “Leather?  _ Gold?” _

“Leather’s more trouble than it’s worth. And we don’t wear much gold in this dimension. It’s not as plentiful, and the armor it makes is flimsy.” He laughs at the piglin’s baffled expression. “It’ll be a surprise. We’ll be out all night, so get a nap in now. I’ll wake you when we’re ready to go.”

And Techno crawls into the nest he’s made of Phil’s couch and snuffles himself to sleep.

***

Phil has to dig out some long-forgotten blueprints to craft armor in his small friend’s size. He helps Technoblade into the suit, and the piglin walks about stiffly, like a dog in booties. “It’s just iron,” he explains, as Techno runs his hands over the rivets in the cool silver metal. “Nothing fancy. But you shouldn’t need too much defense; the Overworld’s a safer place than the Nether, even at night.”

Techno flexes his elbows and listens to the plates clank together. He nods. “I can protect you much more effectively now.”

“You know what? That’s true.” He hands the kid a sword. “And take this.” The weapon is short, basically a dagger, but it will be easy for Techno to use without spraining his little shoulders. “Be responsible.”

He accepts it solemnly. Phil doesn’t need to tell him how important a knife is. It’s not a toy; it’s a tool, and he has to take good care of it if he wants to survive. 

“We’re hunting phantoms tonight,” Phil explains, leading him off of the path and into a darkened forest. “My wings are delicate, and I use their membranes to bind up injuries.” Techno’s sensitive ears prick up at an eerie screech, long before Phil seems to notice their quarry. “Stay where I can see you.”

He’s not planning on leaving. That’s the first thing every piglin learns: stay close to your pack, unless you don’t have any other choice.

“Look,” says Phil, guiding Techno’s head upwards to stare at the moon. A faint winged shadow flits in front of the crescent before disappearing into darkness again. It is just possible to make out a pair of glowing green eyes. Phil draws back the string of his bow and shoots. The arrow flies up at a steep incline and hits the phantom at center mass. The odd bird shrieks and its body glides down toward earth, bouncing off the tree branches.

“Yes!” cheers Phil at a whisper volume. But he’s staring up, and he doesn’t see what his small friend sees, the diminutive ghoul that emerges from the underbrush to bite at his ankles. Technoblade pounces on the threat immediately, pinning the zombie with his gauntlet and slicing into it with his new sword. He cries out in victory as the undead child gushes thick black blood and twitches to stillness.

“I did it,” he says, muscles shaking with fear and exertion. His shiny armor is covered in mud and leaves from the forest floor. “I saved you!”

Phil glances down at him and asks, “huh?”

Technoblade plants his hoof on the monster’s chest.

“Oh.” He laughs. “Buddy, that baby zombie was even smaller than you are. I think I would have been able to handle myself.”

“But you never know,” the piglin pants.

Phil digs around in the underbrush for the dead phantom and peels away the silky membranes from its lifeless body. “You never know for sure.”

***

Autumn comes, and Technoblade seems increasingly listless. But it’s not just the lowering temperatures that sap his energy as he slumps on Phil’s couch, pressing his nose to the cold glass of the windowpane. He watches as the orange and yellow leaves break off of the trees and flutter to the ground. 

The Overworld is pleasant, varied and livable. But it’s not home. It will never be home. He wants to return to the Nether someday. Not now. Not until he’s full grown, strong enough to gather his own pack or strike out without one.

Phil is nice. Phil is his hero, is the Angel that saved his life. And Phil seems to like him back, enjoy his company, laugh at his jokes. This doesn’t count as repaying the favor. Phil is a strange man, because every time Technoblade speaks, he seems to giggle. “You have the mirthful disposition of a follower of Dionysus,” he compliments.

“See, that’s what I mean,” Phil sounds exasperated, “where are you getting these fucking lines?”

In truth, he’s bored. They keep a well-stocked vegetable garden and a large herd of cattle, and Technoblade no longer needs to hunt for his food. The monsters they fight are like footsoldiers. He’s not forced to be clever or cunning, he’s not presented with interesting moral dilemmas. He’s read the stories. He knows them by heart. He understands the noble crux of the world. There’s so much more _out there._

“Phil,” he admits, “I crave adventure.”

Phil’s face crinkles as he smiles. “Go on, then. I’m not keeping you.”

“Will you be alright?” asks Techno as he repairs his armor and tools, “Without me?”

“I was fine before I met you, wasn’t I?” He looks both sad and proud. “I’ll miss you, Technoblade.”

“We will meet again,” Techno promises, “If not in this life, then in Elysium.”

Phil loads his pack with golden carrots and apples. “Be safe out there, my friend.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. The hard knot of scar tissue in his gut straightens his posture. He’s grown taller during his time with Phil, and his shoulders have filled out. Some of his downy piglet peach fuzz has been replaced by harsh bristles. “Technoblade never dies.”

***

Phil stays at the window and watches him go, waves until he’s out of sight. He blinks back his tears. This strange piglin was not his family, but a friend, and friends move on. But they leave ghost-marks on his life, and are always with him even if they stay lost for good. Technoblade thought Phil was a hero, and Phil doesn’t believe that’s true. But he’s not a failure either. He may not slay dragons or lead nations, but he pledges to begin getting his life together. He’ll clean the garbage out of his house, eat more vegetables, and buy a more modern refrigerator that’s not leaking freon into the atmosphere. These are the first small steps toward a great change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww friendship
> 
> I read and appreciate all your comments.
> 
> Next Chapter: "Light" Angst.


	3. Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no heroes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for themes from C!Wilbur's mental health spiral:

Technoblade travels a dozen continents and not one of them becomes his home. He chooses to keep only what he can carry, and lives as a poor man, though rich in experience. He cherishes the armor Phil gave him. He keeps the helmet until it shatters against a rock after he takes a terrible fall. He wears the chestplate until he can no longer fasten it around his broad shoulders. He holds onto his gifts as long as possible before replacing the iron plate with stronger materials. Now only the feather tucked into his belt buckle reminds him of his hero, his friend.

His tusks come in as he’s camping alone in a roofed forest. The pain in his gums is maddening, so he bites into the soothing black bark of the trees. The grooves he leaves behind will speak for years to come of a fearsome beast that dwells amongst the oaks, more animal than human.

One winter night, he misses the Nether and his hooves ache with cold. He moves in toward the light of a village, and when he tears apart a massive arachnid with his bare hands, the civilians flock to his protection. So he spends the night by a warm hearth, and in the morning he meets the king who knights him and presents him with an iron sword and convinces him to stick around a while.

So he stays, and learns a trade, memorizes the recipes for complicated potions. He shares his ideas, commissioning aqueducts to modernize farms and improve output. He swaps stories with the layabouts and spars with the city’s golems. He snaps off the heads of skeleton’s arrows with the points still dug into his hide, and the children follow him around and stare and give flowers.

He serves the king for a while, until the townspeople convince him that the king is just a man who does not deserve his service, and so he liberates them. He takes up the crown and royal robe as a trophy. But after that incident, the kids don’t look at him the same way anymore, so he moves on.

It’s many years before he visits the Nether again. He knows he’s strong enough, now, to protect himself from both pigs and hogs. Yet it takes caution and time and much rechecking of provisions before he regains the courage to step through that portal. He chokes on the stifling heat and doesn’t stay long.

After several more short trips, Techno has reacclimated. He loves the scent of the Nether, like gunpowder in a smokehouse. He’s missed the dull, porous scrape of footsteps on rack. He stands, for a while, in a ruined waste, peering up. There’s no real sky in this dimension, just a red roof, and to him that feels cozy.

He hunts for hoglin in a crimson forest. At the first squeal he hears, his knees shake, and everything in him begs to bolt to safety, but he stands his ground. He downs the beast with his kingslayer sword, and tries to laugh, as he does it, the way Phil did.

He spies a hunting party of piglins and hides himself away to observe. They aren’t dressed like him; they don’t know what he knows. And besides, there’s nobody he recognizes. When he grunts in greeting, the matriarch sends a bolt into his shoulder.  _ He isn’t one of them anymore,  _ Technoblade realizes,  _ not completely. _ He kills two more hogs but leaves the carcasses to rot. He trudges through a soul sand valley, the soil sucking at his ankles like self-pity.

He wanders into an Asphodel of warped fungus trees that would make most visitors uneasy. The enderman quibble peacefully to each other, no substance to their conversations. They don’t remember who they are or why they’re in hell. They didn’t do anything wrong. They’ve done nothing all that right, either.

He picks his way through the impossible cliffs of a basalt delta, but gives up and leaves before the sparks can singe his bristled hairs. He returns to the Overworld and the cool air is a hateable relief. In no place is he content, in no realm is he normal. The problem is internal. So he’ll be transient and find comfort in displacement, because through all his wanderings he’s found no perfect land, but rather a lot of good ones.

***

It’s been maybe twenty years of setbacks and circling and searching when he spies a flash of familiar wings. His hands go to the keepsake in his belt, which is pathetically crumpled now. He hadn’t realized how much he misses Phil. Will the Angel remember him? Will he be afraid of the bulky, fiery-eyed piglin that has grown to loom over him? Techno follows the silhouette in the sky, far too oversized to be a bird, until he finds its landing place.

_ That’s not Phil, _ he discovers with disappointment, but the young man who leans in too close to his campfire has strikingly similar plumage. A skinny blond boy sits beside him, warming his hands. When Technoblade steps from the shadows with a grunt, neither seems afraid. They just stare up at him with tired eyes. The winged man has a bloody bandage wrapped around his shoulder. “Pardon me,” says Techno in the casual syntax he’s picked up over the decades, “I thought you were somebody else.”

“Sorry about that,” says the man as he shivers and pulls his long coat tighter, “But I’m nobody now. Wilbur Soot, disgraced ex-president.”

“Technoblade.” He shakes the hand, noticing its unusual scars, not from battle but from guitar strings. “And I don’t know anything about a presidency. I was just passing through here when I recognized your wings. I knew a great man, once. His name was Phil and he was like you.”

“My Dad,” says Wilbur,  _ “Oh, _ how is he doing?”

Techno shrugs. “I haven’t seen him in years and years, probably since before you were born.” He sits heavily on a fallen log. The fire is low and smoky, constructed from wet wood. This man, Phil’s  _ son, _ clearly doesn’t know how to handle himself in the wild. Not like Technoblade does. “Do you need my help?”

Wilbur glares into the embers, but his companion stops grinding his teeth and looks up to meet the piglin’s eye. “Yes, we do. I’m Tommy.”

The kid is enthusiastic, but no relation of Phil’s, so he’s no one to Technoblade. Tommy tugs on his sullen friend’s arm. “Look, we need all the help we can get.” The boy wears armor, Techno notices, but Wilbur doesn’t. He wonders if Phil would approve of that.

“Fine.” Wil doesn’t look up. “You’re in.”

“In where? Is there a base?”

Wilbur points over his shoulder at a tiny cavern, only a few meters square, dug into the hillside. “We can’t have the fire in there. Fumes would choke us out.”

Techno has to hide a laugh as he buries his snout in his hands.

***

As they expand the shelter, Technoblade handles the practicalities of construction, chopping away edges and overhangs, making sure the whole ravine won’t come down on top of them. Wilbur fusses with the details and decorations, arranging pretty stones and lanterns in the corners. Tommy, it seems, would be happy enough to live in a muddy pit as long as he had somebody to talk to. He pesters the men as they work, bombarding Techno with questions about the Nether.

“Dangerous for humans,” he says simply, “Not all that safe for piglins either.”

He asks for stories of Phil, but Wilbur shoots him a look and it doesn’t seem like his place. “He helped me,” he says instead, “And I owe him a favor.”

“What happened to your parents, Blade?”

“They were murdered by orphans. I’m on a sacred quest to avenge them.”

Tommy snorts. “But wouldn’t that make you an--”

He grins. The stories aren’t always supposed to make sense.

On the third day, Wilbur changes out of the strange blue uniform he wears under his trench coat. He confiscates a matching outfit from Tommy and burns both on a bonfire, though the boy protests and runs out in tears when the flames flare upwards. Techno sighs and drops his mealy potato onto the coals. “Tell me what’s going on with you.”

“We’ve been driven out of our nation by a corrupt dictator,” says Wilbur, his voice silky.

“And how can I help?”

“We need to overthrow him.”

The piglin reaches up and twists his crown. “That’s within my skillset.”

***

Techno builds stone walkways, and Wilbur hangs delicate rope bridges. Techno puts in safety railings, Tommy complains, and Wilbur chops them down with his axe. “I know you want adventure,” he groans, “and  _ excitement, _ but it’s still important to be careful. You have to have a sense of self-preservation.” Wilbur rolls his eyes.

He shows Techno the crates upon crates of explosives he’s borrowed from a mysterious sponsor, and explains how he’ll win. “Not a war,” he says, “an insurgency,” and Techno nods along, because he knows how viciously one has to fight when one is outnumbered. Tommy’s angry again, angry about the bombs and the way Wilbur’s eyes light up in a rare smile when he runs his fingers over the fuse. 

The piglin doesn’t understand why. Wilbur’s plan is good and effective and will keep the people in his pack safe. But Tommy’s worried about the others, wants to protect the lives of even the citizens who drove them to this ravine. “You can’t keep caring,” he tries to tell the boy, “about people who aren’t with you anymore.”

“Well, I  _ do,”  _ Tommy yells. He shoves a hand in the middle of the broad porcine chest and runs off, sneakers clattering on the stone.

“He’ll be back,” says Wilbur. “He’s just gone to find someplace to cry.”

“Is he on our side?”

“Of course. And if not, he’ll come around. He has to.” And his desperate tone makes it clear there’s just no other option for him. It seems like Wilbur’s never really been by himself.

The dictator plans a festival. Wilbur has his own plans for the festival. He’ll press a button and end the war before it’s even begun. Technoblade’s invited, and he shows up with his armor on. His allies watch from the shadows, their cover not particularly good if one knows where to look. They pace in the penthouse of a nearby building, Wilbur’s face tense but gleeful. Tommy wears a grimace like he’s being torn in half.

Tubbo, the boy that Tommy cares so much about, gives a speech, and even despite everything, Tommy looks proud, as though he wants to clap and cheer. But his face falls as Tubbo is suddenly forced to his knees and tied up against a concrete pillar. The president exposes him for disloyalty and summons Technoblade to the stage.  _ Is this part of the plan? _ He looks to Wilbur for answers, but the winged man’s face is blank and unreadable.

“Kill him,” orders the president, and Technoblade thinks about sacrifices.

He thinks of Iphigenia, the daughter of a powerful king, given unto the altar to pray for wind that would carry the Greek navy to storm Troy. How her suffering was needed to provide the spark that tore down the walls of a distant city. He remembers how, in some versions of the story, the princess is whisked away at the last second to be a priestess to Artemis. Maybe if he stalls long enough, Schlatt will change his mind, or Wilbur will act, or Tommy will swoop in and protect his friend.

He thinks about the Minotaur, half-man, half-beast, who ate fourteen Athenian youths a year just to stay alive, and of the city that sent those children to their deaths.

He looks at the crowd that outnumbers him, and the boy who is cowering. Tubbo’s no threat. Techno can’t fight a whole nation on his own.

He takes a deep breath, and does what he’s supposed to do. He launches a lit firework into the boy’s frightened face, and watches the explosion of color and sound.

Back in the ravine, Tommy won’t quite meet his eye. Wilbur suggests they fistfight to settle their feelings, and that feels like the right thing to do. It’s an easy win for the piglin, and Tommy slinks off to the most distant corner of the cave, pinching a bloody nose.

“He’ll get over it,” says Wilbur, but Techno has his doubts. Wil tosses a knife in the air and catches it as it spins, nicking his palm. 

Techno growls and confiscates the weapon. “I’m trying to protect you, but you’re not making it easy.”

“Why try?”

“Your father saved my life. I feel beholden to him.”

Wilbur folds his wings. “What happened to your family, Techno?”

“I never had one.” Let this man think he was never small, was never weak, that he sprang up fully formed from God’s mind like a good idea. “So you decided not to press the button?”

“No,” says Wilbur, “I couldn’t fucking  _ find  _ it.”

***

Tommy used to look up to him as a hero. Now the boy sits with his arms wrapped around his knees and rarely speaks. Technoblade is less and less sure of himself. Wilbur says he made the right choice. Tubbo only whimpers in pain during the few moments he’s conscious. He wishes Phil were here to tell him what to do.

He sets his own Herculean tasks for a shot at redemption. He steals ancient debris from the underworld and smelts it into strong alloys. He’s hideous with burn marks and red dust, so he hides away to forge, creating beautiful items that his allies will appreciate. He’s learned a lot since his piglet days, but the Greek epics still form the spokes of his morality. Hard work is a virtue, and sweat and strain can make right even the most heinous crimes imaginable.

Wilbur also seems to live by storybook rules, but of a different genre. He keeps a flint and steel in his pocket and calls it Chekhov’s gun. Some moments he seems quieter, sadder, but at the same time more lucid. Even then he seems to think it’s hopeless, like he’s working against a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Technoblade would fight a thousand monsters to keep Phil’s son safe. He’s starting to think it doesn’t matter.

Wilbur’s started taking something he calls Blue. He swears it’s not a drug, just something to help him feel better. He hands it out to his army before battle like a preemptive apology.

Technoblade leads all his allies to his vault and distributes resources. They wonder aloud if he’s a traitor and go through his dresser drawers. Wilbur slides swords out of a repurposed umbrella stand and looks longingly at each blade. “You can have one,” Techno reassures him, “They’re free to take.” He’s still in his favorite trench coat. “You’ve got no protection, Wil. Please, grab a set.”

“I don’t need armor.”

“Okay, Achilles,” he jokes, “Your skin thick enough to keep you safe?”

Wilbur smiles ruefully. “Something like that.”

***

They fight. Technoblade wonders if Phil knows where his son is, or how to find them. He wants to help Wilbur, so he does whatever the man asks of him. He’s not sure if that helps. Phil is a hero, is a father. If only he were here, it would all be okay.

They win the war, but Wilbur just looks even more lifeless. This is no victory. Techno misses him slip away, but notices that he’s gone moments before the earth blows open beneath the new President’s podium. 

The dust clears, and Wilbur is not alone. The angel stands over him, wings in tatters from the explosion. He’s older, sadder, dressed differently, but the piglin would recognize Phil anywhere. He gazes up in childlike awe. A real hero is here. It’s all going to be okay. Phil pulls his son into a hug, and --

  
  


_ … holds him until the moment he dies. His face is bloody and pale. The piglin can name more than a dozen major gods and they’re all imperfect. _

Technoblade assembles the frames of two withers, his tusks taut against his lip.

_ He was supposed to live. The way Technoblade tells tales, the fallen leader makes it through. He has to live with what he’s done. Hercules went mad and slaughtered his whole family, and that was just the beginning of his story. _

He bellows the legend of Theseus for anyone who will listen.

_ Theseus whose father never expected him to make it back alive, Augeas who threw himself from the highest tower of the castle when he spied black sails, Ariadne who solved the labyrinth and fell in love and was abandoned on an island and met a God. _

(He doesn’t tell these parts of the story, only the bit about the hero.)

_ There are no heroes. _

He’s only ever understood the world as a work of fiction, an epic poem with a beginning, middle, end. Where the hell does this leave him? He brings his two unholy monsters to life. A city of war-spattered refugees can’t fight two withers.

_ So why do they try?  _

Tommy stands on the edge of the crater and shouts encouragement to the soldiers he was locked in combat with only an hour ago. They slash at the monsters with bloodied swords.

Technoblade has just watched as the man he once idolized killed his own son. But now Phil steps away from his boy’s lifeless body and fires arrows into the demons, his aim rigid and clean. He’s not a hero, so why is he pretending to be? Why’d he bother giving Techno the wrong idea?

_ He still has the Blue that Wilbur gave him. What a beautiful, rare, color. _

He summoned the withers. He’s defending them. He wants them to blacken the grass, deepen the crater. 

_ Will Phil kill him next? _

Techno doubts the man would be capable of it. The piglin is much bigger and stronger than he was all those years ago, and he’s not going down without a fight. 

_ Does Phil hate him? Does he deserve to be hated? _

He shakes his head. He’s just disillusioned with the whole concept of heroism. The withers go down, their false energy spent, and Technoblade sinks to his knees, exhausted, breathing heavily. His enemies tend to their wounded. No one’s coming for him, and his muscles ache from the fight. A shadow falls over his back.

“Hello, old friend.” Phil smiles softly, his beautiful wings charred and skeletal. 

Techno grunts. “This isn’t Elysium.”

“No,” he says with a choked laugh, “No, it’s not.”

“What have we done?” the piglin asks in a small voice.

Phil sits beside him, dangling his feet off the edge of the crater. It’s a dangerous precipice for a man who can no longer fly. “You’ve really grown up, haven’t you, mate?”

Techno closes his eyes. “Please don’t start treating me like I’m your son.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I really tried, you know?” He takes his older friend’s hand for comfort. “I liked him. We didn’t have much in common, and I don’t think he was really himself towards the end, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“You get that I’m not a fucking hero now, don’t you?” Phil wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Maybe we’re supposed to know the right thing to do, but even now, it feels like we’re just reacting. You’re minding your own business, not a particularly good or bad person, and because of your actions, someone dies, someone else lives. You don’t understand the magnitude of what you’ve done until it’s just too late.”

“It’s called  _ filicide  _ when you kill your own child, right?”

“You always did like big words, you asshole,” says Phil, and they stay at the battlefield until the last fires go out, then limp off together to find a new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur's cause of death was genre-awareness and now his ghost can walk through fourth walls.
> 
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I appreciate all your comments <33


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